


Ragnarök

by Shear



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28442271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shear/pseuds/Shear
Summary: Months after Byleth’s painful rejection, Sylvain seizes his latest, and probably best, opportunity.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/My Unit | Byleth
Kudos: 61





	1. Humanity

Sylvain was never one to take rejections personally. 

Since his ripe early teenage years, he had recognized the power of quantity when it came to love. If he simply asked more and more girls to dinner, it resulted—quite subsequentially—in him having more and more dates, romances, and as he got older, bedroom partners. This quantity approach inevitably led to some rejections; however, in the aggregate, the arrangement was rewarding. There was a wider macro-level gain beyond these few rejections. 

Sylvain could never put a finger on how he started this approach or why it persisted. Perhaps the lack of familial intimacy growing up, courtesy of his cold-hearted father, led him to seek external validation. Perhaps he sought to carve his own romantic path that deviated from the typical noble romance model: arrange a mutually beneficial union between two houses, facilitate a formal marriage, and reproduce to perpetuate the genealogy of both houses. He witnessed too many marriages following this model turn dull, sour, or lifeless, leading him to desire something different. Perhaps he subconsciously liked embarrassing shallow women when he confronted them about their obsession with his Crest of Gautier, like some sick game. The closest to the psychology of his dating life was likely to be a combination of these various reasons, but it never concerned him.

His eyebrow twitched subtly whenever Dimitri, Ingrid, or Felix psychoanalyzed his subscription of said life. Ingrid staged a failed intervention at one point during their mid-teenage years in an attempt to obstinately intercept his dating life, believing it to be of a detriment to him. Since then, no other serious hindrances have been made, but the commentary never did stop. Felix would roll his eyes over Sylvain’s description of a recent date, or Ingrid would retell the same story of him flirting with her grandmother for the umpteenth time. Dimitri took a softer approach, asking him if a relationship was what Sylvain truly wanted at the time. 

He would dismiss the critiques with a joke or flirtation, but deep down, he knew their words carried a degree of truth. Sylvain never did dwell on his dating life psychology...until he faced a rejection that he did take personally. 

A certain teal-haired woman arrived in the middle of Great Tree Moon. He made casual talk with a monastery guard, catching a glimpse of a flowy gray cloak in the background. The guard talked about his rather interesting night shift a day ago while Sylvain curiously watched the figure meander up the path parallel to the dormitories. 

Her style of dress was foreign to the redhead student. The woman adorned a brassy, incandescent neckpiece that glimmered in the afternoon sunlight, reflecting back at him with an almost blinding quality. Sylvain picked up on the intricate lacing of her tights, the vibrant purple velvet of her dagger sheath, and the striking blue of her irises. Her head angled towards the dormitories as if she spotted her dwelling for the coming months.

The guard caught Sylvain’s attention once again, and when he looked back in the newcomer’s direction, she was gone as quick as she came.

It was not long until the rest of the Blue Lions chattered about the new individual wandering around the monastery. “She saved Claude, Edelgard, and I from the bandits,” Dimitri whispered to him later that day as the two of them eyed her maundering across the Officers Academy courtyard. She observed the buildings dotted around the monastery as if she never saw them before. Her coat was off her shoulders and rested in her arms as she walked. 

So, she’s pretty and has a strong sword arm? Sylvain thought. Although Dimitri wasn’t paying attention, a small smile played on the red-haired student’s face. Sylvain always appreciated a new face to look at. 

After a few moments of the two of them staring, Sylvain decided to take a few steps towards her. “What are you doing?” Dimitri asked. 

“Offering the lady a welcome she deserves,” he replied, winking at the prince. 

Sylvain walked across the courtyard, picking up a few stares from the students in their classrooms. They, too, must have been gossiping about the newcomer in the monastery. He picked up on a few conversations. Some speculated she was young enough to be a fellow student. However, others noticed a more seasoned appearance to her, suggesting she might be a new professor. 

“My lady,” Sylvain started as the distance between them lessened. “I happen to notice none of us have seen you before. What brings you to the monastery?”

She stopped her stride, hugging the coat in her arms defensively. The woman possessed some of the most piercing blue eyes he had ever seen. They were a true light blue, akin to the shallow water where the sea meets the sand of a beach. Her eyebrows furrowed as she studied him almost too intently. “My lady…” she wondered aloud. 

“I apologize for the formality. Bad habit, I suppose.” He shoved a hand into his pants pocket. “Would you like a bit of a tour? Afterward, perhaps, I can show you some of the dining hall’s offerings.”

She blinked at him. “I’m afraid I must be shown to my room at the dormitories. Thank you for the offer, though.” The woman began to circle around him to continue on her way. It was a blatant lie because Sylvain had seen her discover her room earlier.

He swallowed loudly, almost as if his pride swished down his throat as well. “Can I at least have a name to call you?”

“Professor.” 

He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but that one stung. She did not even show a semblance of interest. By the time he returned to Dimitri at the end of the courtyard, he was already cracking a joke about his rejection.

Sylvain plays that encounter in his head over and over again as he lays in his dorm room cot, staring up at his ceiling. 

He is no stranger to rejection, but the professor’s affected him quite strangely. It was an epiphany for him: all of the women he goes on dates with are commoners of the local town who were lucky to ever swing a sword once. They are easy bait, but when one woman comes around that is beautiful and strong, he stands no chance.

Sylvain loves to play a more oblivious character for the public’s gaze. The appearance of being unaffected or, even better, amused allows him to circumvent confronting his biggest insecurity: he can never make it with a woman he is actually interested in being long-term with. A woman whose intellect matches his own. A woman who can keep up with him in a sparring match. A woman who doesn’t give two shits about his Crest of Gautier. 

He lets out a deep sigh, feeling his body sink into the bed. His self-loathing has been amplified since his return a day ago from the mission the Blue Lions were assigned. He saw his brother, Miklan, transform into a monster before his very eyes. Sylvain couldn’t help but believe the only reason he’s alive and Miklan isn’t is because of a birthly given, randomly assigned Crest—not because of his strength, merits, or anything within his control. 

That vexes him to his core.

“I should probably get to class,” he murmurs to the still air of his room. 

Pulling himself up, Sylvain begins to dress himself. He tucks his shirt neatly into his trousers and laces everything in. When he guides his arms through the sleeves of his student jacket, he notices a bit of snugness around his biceps. Sparring with Felix is doing something, huh? 

On the way out the door, he shoves a piece of bread in his mouth from his leftover dinner last night. Then, Sylvain makes his quick journey to the Blue Lions classroom, trudging through the Verdant Rain Moon heat. He greets each student he passes with a smile, all while taking bits of bread in between. 

His bag filled with textbooks nestles in a comfortable spot on his shoulder. He’s been quite the study as of late, which surprises even him. Sylvain has been reading up on Sreng—the territory north of the Gautier region—history and politics. Also, along with help from Mercedes and Annette, he is studying Reason upon realizing just a few weeks ago that he has potential in the arcane discipline. 

Just as his mind wanders to Mercedes, he spots her in the classroom waiting for others to arrive. Sylvain could not mistake that light blond hair for anyone other than the talented mage. He settles onto the table behind hers. “Good morning, Mercedes.”

She hums a tune back. “Quite odd to see you here so early.”

“Consider me a changed man.”

“Huh!” She chuckles. “Have your...prolific dating habits changed as well?”

“That will be explored at a later date.”

“Tell me…” Mercedes flips a page of her book. Her voice contains a dash of concern. “...does this have anything to do with this past mission?”

Before he could answer her, a group bursts through the doors of the classroom. Dimitri’s voice takes over, “Professor, I’m a bit concerned about how open I was to counters during that last mission.”

Sylvain hears a short sigh that can only belong to the professor for the Blue Lions. “Dimitri, your approach is fine. Focus more on believing in yourself and less about every flaw in your combat.”

The redhead opens his book about the history of Sreng, resuming where he left off last night. The bustling and chattering of the students become a droning in his ear. “Sylvain.” He looks up to see Byleth standing next to his chair. “Are you okay? You seem quiet. I’ve come to expect your usual flirtatious conversations with colleagues of yours before class.” 

“I’m alright, Professor,” he assures her. “I’m not that fragile. My brother was a deadbeat even before he, well, died.”

He notices her blue eyes darken a bit, shifting from that more coastal blue tone to a coldwater ocean. For someone so stoic, her eyes are very expressive. She leans over closer to him, a collection of inky dark teal hair strands tossing over her shoulder and skimming over his. Byleth places a hand firmly on his back, just below the nape of his neck, as a comforting gesture. “It isn’t fragility I’m concerned about, Sylvain. It’s humanity.”

Her touch leaves him, and she heads towards her desk at the front of the classroom. Byleth will constantly surprise him; in one moment, she will deliver a striking critique of his form or scold him for a midnight escapade before a mission, and in the next, she will comfort him or laugh at one of his jokes. 

Sylvain releases the breath he didn’t know he held.


	2. A Growing Flame

“Good. Try again.”

Sylvain concentrates on his hand held out in front of him. His palm faces the ceiling of the classroom, fingers outstretched, as if feeding a horse. He feels the air get heavier and heavier, his head pounding.

“Keep your breathing steady.”

He sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly and steadily. Suddenly, his body envelops with warmth matched by the hot mid-year sun outside of the classroom. The warmth travels from his head, to his torso, through his arms, and then isolates itself at his fingertips. The feeling is electric and completely foreign to Sylvain, one who trained with physical weapons his entire life—and definitely not magic. 

A tiny flame shows itself, hovering just inches above the skin of his palm. His entire hand feels hot, but it does not burn. 

“Now, hold it.”

Sylvain stares at the flame dancing in his hand, oranges, yellows, and reds swirling and feathering into the air. Unexpectedly, it extinguishes within seconds, the overwhelming heat once present in his hand dissipating. His body begins to feel cold. 

“Damnit.” He closes his hand into a fist and pulls it closer to his body. 

“It’ll take practice.” Sylvain looks up from his hand to find Byleth staring at it as well. In his sea of concentration, he barely noticed her and the other students quietly working amongst themselves in the background. “Just last week it took you a while to even cast it. You’re casting time is getting much better.”

“I can barely hold it to do anything with it.” He sighs loudly. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” she says without hesitation. 

“It feels impossible.” Sylvain clenches his fist tighter. He expects some kind of response from her, but he finds her occupied in a book for teaching Reason. 

The one who was a former mercenary and now a professor. The one who bore the Crest of Flames but never knew for most of her life—Sylvain cannot even fathom that reality. The one who wields the Sword of Creator so effortlessly that it almost looks beautiful, shining bright and unyielding despite being caked in the blood of her adversaries. 

“Professor,” he calls out. 

Her head perks up, and he is able to see her face unobstructed. Dark strands frame her face and head, and her eyes seem cloudy. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Say, something I want is unattainable,” Sylvain starts, leaning back in his chair. “How should I cope with that?” 

Byleth’s eyes fall to the stack of books on the table, appearing deep in thought. She rubs her lips together before saying, “Why is that particular something unattainable?” 

“It is hypothetical.” 

“Is it now?” The two of their eyes meet again. This time, she looks at him like she does a map of a battlefield, probing and testing certain conditions and formulations until achieving the right one. It makes him feel utterly vulnerable, a strange warmth building in his core. 

Sylvain clears his throat, recalling her rejection moons ago. He caves into her prying. “I was told it was unattainable.”

“Were you really?” Byleth seems to not expect an answer, so she continues, “There are very few things in this world that are truly and absolutely unattainable, Sylvain. It is more likely that you are convincing yourself that this particular something is unattainable than it actually being so.” 

Now, it is his turn to poke and prod with questions of his own. “What if it were truly and absolutely unattainable?”

“Then, I wouldn’t be the best person to ask.” Her voice dips lower in volume, not quite to a whisper but low enough to blend in with the voices conversing around them. “I don’t cope well when something is unattainable.”

“Why?”

“For most of my life, I wanted a mother desperately,” Byleth whispers, leaning closer to him. “As much as I love and cherish Jeralt, he is hardened by the tragedies he’s gone through his entire life, and I wanted someone to teach me something other than fighting. However, no one can bring back the dead.”

Sylvain chooses not to dwell on the subject any further. “Oh, and Sylvain,” she starts again, standing up from her chair. “The flame is getting larger when you cast it. Focus on those smaller improvements if you ever feel as if your progress is stagnant.”

“I wasn’t talking about a prowess in Reason being unattainable, Professor.” A small smile plays on his face. “I’ll get it eventually.”

“Oh.” Byleth’s eyes widened when the realization struck her. “ _Oh_.” Her head snaps around to look at the next student on her tutoring agenda. She swallows quite loudly, plagued by some sense of embarrassment or awkwardness. “I should probably get started on Ashe’s lesson. We’ll speak again tomorrow.”

\---

Sylvain dreams of a future that feels so close yet so distant at the same time. 

He is riding an armored horse, his lower half snug in the saddle and the powerful animal beneath him feeling like an extension of his own body. His pace is a slow gallop, traveling across an open field dotted with soldiers. The wind grips his hair more with its newfound length. A silver shield weighs from his forearm, heavy and grounding him to the earth. 

A row of soldiers across the field formed a line and angled their bows towards the sky. Sylvain’s head whips around to warn his battalion. “Shields!” A volley of arrows sings through the air as the Kingdom soldiers ready themselves with blockades of iron.

He covers himself with his own just as the barrage makes landfall. An arrow deflects off his shield with a thunk, sending a wave of pressure through his arm. The man winces just slightly from the impact. 

“Sylvain!”

Lowering his shield at the sound of Byleth’s voice, he notices a horseman gallop towards him at full speed, his lance pointing forward. Sylvain attempts to deflect; however, it was futile. The horseman knicks his steed's front leg, and then, the redhead’s vision dizzies. His horse collapses, and his feet fly out of the stirrups. Sylvain’s body slams into the hard ground, his weapon escaping his grasp on the way down. 

The ringing in his ears intensifies, yet he musters the strength to pull his face from the mud. Sylvain manages to lift his arm to get the strands of hair caked in dirt out of his eyes. Just as his hearing recovers and his vision becomes clearer, Byleth braces in front of him as the horseman gallops towards him again. She times the stroke of her sword perfectly, knocking his lance away just as it descends upon her. 

After, she urgently tugs at Sylvain’s arm. “Come on, you need to get up.” Just as he steadies onto his feet, the horseman gallops towards them again. He grabs Byleth's arm and throws her to the side almost too harshly, but he is only thinking about making sure the two of them make it out alive. 

Sylvain just barely manages to avoid the sweep of the lance. As the horseman makes a turn to prepare his next strike, the redhead shoots his arm forward, fingers outstretched and his palm aimed towards the sky. He feels a heat current travel from his head to his hand, the muscles of his face hardening with concentration. Just as the heat and pressure reach his hand, Sylvain clenches his fist and snaps his wrist upwards. 

_Ragnarök_. A swirl of fire appears above the horseman, becoming larger and larger until descending upon the enemy. The vortex of orange, red, and yellow consumes the soldier. A scream ripples across the field at the horseman burns, a dastardly scent wafting in the air. The smell of burning flesh makes Sylvain’s eyes water. 

His head swirls around and gazes out across the field. A bright red coat catches his eye, belonging to a face he came to enjoy seeing around the monastery. Edelgard. She mounts a horse and observes the chaos she created from afar with those cold lilac eyes, waiting for her chance to strike.

Sylvain shoots up from his bed, breathing heavily and cloaked in a layer of sweat. As the furniture in the darkness becomes more clear, he frowns. This isn’t his room. 

He places the palms of his hands behind him and leans back, looking over to the other side of the bed. A woman sleeps next to him, a fluff of hazel hair sprawled across the pillow. She lets out a soft snore, seemingly undisturbed by his chaotic dream state. He notices a developing bruise along her collarbone, and that’s when he realizes he’s undressed underneath the sheets—as is she.

Sighing softly, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His body shivers a bit from removing the blanket, but he slowly adjusts. Sylvain flips his hand over and just stares at his palm. Without even thinking too much, heat flows through his body. A strong flame appears in his hand.

_One...two...three…_ he mentally counts as he holds the flame. Eventually, Sylvain stops, noticing it's not extinguishing. He did it! He lets out a bit of a chuckle—a happy, victorious one.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning after has a biting chill in the air as a certain redhead makes his way over to the bathhouse. Just moments ago, his eyes struggled to remain open, but the chattering cold and a slight nip of a wind gust pulled him right out of his slumberous state. 

Last night was not his proudest lay, Sylvain concludes. He purses his lips. Perhaps, he is being too harsh. The late-night outings are only meant to satisfy a certain itch; he should not be expecting some kind of spectacular, loving event from commoners he doesn’t even know the names of. The memorable aspect of last night wasn’t the mediocre fornication, but instead, the summoning of a steady, persistent flame in the palm of his hand. 

The man smiles at the memory: the creaking bed of his temporary partner’s dwelling, the darkness of her room, the warmth at his fingertips, and the flickering of an orange and yellow whisper. He couldn’t wait to show Felix or Ingrid, or better yet, defeat a foe in combat with it. 

Sylvain walks up the steps of the bathhouse’s entrance, already feeling the steam of the hot waters warming the air. He greets an empty bath in the men’s section, which he expects because the students and monastery staff tend to utilize it more in the evenings. However, he was too occupied last night. 

He unlaces the waistband of his trousers, and they fall down to the floor with a slight clang from the metal eyelets. The man folds the pants into a neat stack, folding his shirt with it as well after he unbuttons it from his torso. He unties the drawstring of his breeches, and it, too, joins the stack, and he places his collection of clothing next to one of the columns. 

A toe dips below the surface of the water, gauging the temperature. Sylvain slowly trudges into the depths of the bath. Those first few moments tend to be when the heat is overwhelming and almost painfully blistering. Eventually, he settles into a seat along the pool’s perimeter, propping an arm along the curb to lean his head on and shutting his eyes. The sleepiness returns from earlier but is not as strong.

He hears a series of footsteps approaching him. “Mornin’,” he says, not even looking behind him.

“Good morning. I noticed you missed breakfast again.” Sylvain recognizes Byleth’s voice.

He isn’t too shy about her presence, but it does feel quite odd for her to be there. “Do you frequently talk to students while they bathe, Professor?” 

“No, not frequently. I needed to speak with you.” She steps forward more, her voice becoming a tad clearer. “Busy night yesterday?”

“Yeah, I stayed up pretty late.”

“With a…?” Sylvain flexes out the arm propped up on the edge of the bath and stretches out his finger. Heat snaps to his palm easily, and a fire comes to life with ease. “Oh.” The student doesn’t have the heart to mention the woman he slept with.

“I had a dream last night,” he starts. Sylvain sits up and swims away from the wall, wading in the centermost waters of the bath. 

“What was it about?” 

The redhead dips his head underneath the water, and then, he ascends back up to the surface. He fully stands up, the water creeping just below his navel. With his body used to the warmth of the bath, the air is cold against his exposed upper half. Warm droplets roll down his torso, and the juxtaposition of the cold air and warm water trigger goosebumps along his skin. 

Sylvain runs his fingers through his fiery hair, both to get it out of his face and comb through any tangles. He looks at Byleth for the first time. She stands at the foot of the bath in her usual cape coat, tights, and brass amulet. The man catches her staring a bit, but she diverts her gaze. If she’s embarrassed by his catching of her, neither her eyes nor her face indicates such. “I was in the middle of a battlefield. I casted the spell Ragnarök at an enemy.” His eyebrows furrow. “But, we were fighting soldiers of the Empire and Edelgard.”

“That’s unusual. The Empire would never do that.” Byleth crosses her arms over her chest. She ponders over his description of the dream for a brief moment, and then she moves on. “I do want to talk to you about this past mission.”

Sylvain nods and returns back to the seat along the perimeter. He feigns a look of indifference, but internally, the thought of the past mission haunts him. No matter how many layers of jokes or avoidances, he still remembers vividly Miklan’s violent screams from the heroic weapon consuming him.

“We obtained the Lance of Ruin from the battle, as you already know. Lady Rhea was, at first, inclined to shelter it within the Church of Seiros, but I managed to convince her to give the weapon to me for combat use, since your father gave permission.” He looks at her with wide eyes. “Yes, I’ll be entrusting you with it. I believe that you are ready to wield it.”

“Goddess, it’s going to feel really weird to fight with a weapon that destroyed my brother.” 

“I know,” she says solemnly. “I left it at the blacksmith to be sharpened. When you’re ready, you can pick it up. Take your time.”

The woman begins to walk away. “Byleth,” Sylvain calls out. “Next time you want to see me undressed, you can just ask.” It’s the first time saying her name aloud. 

He watches as she looks back at him, letting out a laugh bright enough to warm the crispness of the morning air, reveal the afternoon sun, and tame the wind. Her laugh comes to a smooth stop, and her lips curve into a smile. 

It was meant to be one of those flirtations Sylvain expects to be unsuccessful. He feels a heat rise in him—as if he were to use fire magic—as Byleth continues to look at him longer. 

“Perhaps I will.” Her smile is no longer, but it is replaced by something darker. Something he has never seen on her face before. Her eyes are a swirling and cloudy blue, capturing the essence of an unknown he wants to explore. She fades away into the steam of the bathhouse.

He imagines a door opening at that moment.

Ragnarök, the spell, is named after a mythical story involving the battle of Gods and the world at large. The spell is not just a symbol of destruction and power but also a symbol of agency—of will. And he mastered the spell in his dream, casts it even.

If there is one thing that he learns from his dreams, it is that he has the potential to seize everything—unattainables, opportunities, and victories—only if he wills it.

And by Goddess, Sylvain intends to will that door into existence. 

\---

Felix sits atop Sylvain’s bed in his dorm room, his eyes trailing along the Lance of Ruin that nestles itself into the corner of the room. “It looks…”

“...terrifying,” Sylvain finishes. 

The redhead stares at the weapon, and he swears it stares him in the eyes back. A series of bone-like fragments of varying links connecting to the lance’s shaft like rib bones to a spine. An orb sits in the crux of the relic’s sharp tip.

Sylvain glances at Felix and smiles. “Terrifying and beautiful, similar to the women I like.”

Felix rolls his eyes, groaning and plopping down onto his bed. “Great, now you’re comparing weapons to women. Goddess help us…”

“Just wait, Felix. Maybe you’ll catch me in the bathhouse one day shoving it up my—” His friend props his head up and shoots him the iciest glare. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”

“You’re lucky I tolerate you.” Sylvain knows he never means it, and even further, it’s the way Felix expresses himself in his best of friendships.

“I’m glad you do,” he mumbles inaudibly to the Lance of Ruin. The redhead hears Felix’s stomach growl loudly from across the room. “Go eat dinner, you fool.”

“Are we still on for sparring tomorrow?” his friend asks, getting off the bed. 

“Of course.” 

Felix nods, and he heads towards the door of the dorm room. The door opens with a winding creak, and just as he is about to leave, he turns back. “Sylvain, what about the commoners you fuck are terrifying?”

The redhead grins, taking amusement in him not knowing his plans for the evening. Sylvain feels omnipotent. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, Felix interrupts him.

“Actually, I’d prefer not to know the answer,” he says. “Oh, and…” He pauses, taking in a quick breath. “I’m glad you seem to be feeling better. You’ve been off for a day or two now.” The seriousness of what he says seems to make him awkward. “I know I’m not the best one to talk to about it, but both Ingrid and Dimitri would love to help you. They told me to tell you that.”

Sylvain nods in understanding, making his way over to the sole window in his room. “Thank you, Felix. Good night.”

“Good night.” The door closes, and the room becomes silent.

The man sighs, propping his leg on a short dresser in front of his room’s window. Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, he gazes outside at the monastery, erect buildings shooting up in all shapes and sizes. Their brick walls have different shades of gray, indicating their age or material. However, the scenery looks like every aspect of this place fits in harmony. Like it belongs. 

Sylvain notices a cloaked figure walking along the path to the dormitories below. Byleth looks as if she just left the bathhouse, clad in a loose slip dress that passed her knees and her usual gray cape coat. Her hair is wet and straight from the bathwater. 

In his haste, he leaves the window, closes his room’s door behind him, and treads through the hallway. He travels down the stairs and empties into the outdoor corridor of the first-floor dormitory. Sylvain locates one of the last doors for this stretch of dorm rooms and musters up a strong knock.

“Who is it?”

He thanks the Goddess for the years of experience with women he’s had. He says without a stutter, pause, or any other signal of nervousness, “Sylvain.”

“It’s unlocked,” Byleth calls out.

The redhead turns the knob and lets himself in, cheekily locking the door behind him when it closes. She gives no indication that he did so. Byleth sits at her desk with a comb, running the prongs through her wet hair. She sets it down when she finishes. “I heard you picked up the Lance of Ruin from the blacksmith.”

“I did.” Sylvain watches as she stands up from her chair, walking over to her nightstand. She wears a flowy white linen dress with lace integrating purple ribbon around the edges. Her back turns to him as she stows away the comb in one of her nightstand drawers. The back of her dress extends to her lower back, displaying the defined curve of her spine. Noticing the sun setting further outside of her window, Byleth takes a piece of steel shaped into a c pattern and strike it against a piece of flint to light a candle. “Can I ask you a more personal question?”

“Hm?” She starts putting away the clothing she wears during the day into drawers. 

“What do you know about your mother?”

Byleth freezes—likely never expecting a question of that caliber. “I know nothing, or at least only vague things that mean nothing.” She becomes animated again, pushing in a drawer. “I only have a curated fantasy of what she could have been.”

“What is that fantasy like?” he asks.

“She looks like me because it’s clear Jeralt and I look nothing alike. Hair a dark teal and blue eyes.” She puts her sheathed dagger that she carries around during the day on her desk. “She teaches me faith and how to heal. She teaches me how to express feelings like how to love or how to cry. Maybe she shows me painting or gardening or…” Byleth pauses. “...or...anything besides swinging a sword, quite frankly.”

He notices her obsessive and unnecessary tidying is to circumvent her looking him in the eye. Sylvain steps forward and places a hand down on a book she picked up, pressing it back down on the desk. “I’m quite seasoned in one of those things. Care to take a guess?”

Byleth exhales shakily, and she moves her gaze from the map of Fódlan on the wall to him. She realizes only centimeters of still, heavy air separated the two of them. “That might be something you’re better than me at, for once.” 

“Can I touch you?” Sylvain asks hastily, feeling a sudden warmth in his core.

“Like a platonic hug?” she jokes. Byleth, even with her eyes a shade of darker blue, feigns an oblivious façade. 

He casts an unappreciative glare, and then, that elicits a small, borderline maniacal smile from her. “Oh, do you mean…” Byleth lowers the volume of her voice. “...something like the way I touched myself after our conversation in the bathhouse?”

Sylvain pulls her smiling lips into his with a grab of her waist. Clutching fistfuls of his shirt’s fabric, she draws him even closer. He runs his hand over the curve of her side and flattens a palm against her hip. Byleth opens her lips just enough to introduce the tip of her tongue, and he responds promptly to deepen the kiss.

The redhead pulls his head away, moving his hand to the underside of her thigh and his other supports her weight as he lifts her onto the desk. “What did you do after you walked out of the bathhouse?” His two hands separate her thighs just enough to nestle himself up against her closely.

“Goddess, I…” She leans back and holds her upper-half upright with two hands placed firmly on the desk behind her. “I had to pleasure myself quickly because I had a lesson scheduled with Mercedes soon after I talked to you.” Sylvain feels his trousers tighten as he drags his lips along Byleth’s jawline. He supports her body with a hand on the skin of her lower back as she cranes her head back a bit. “I palmed myself through my clothes, and I thought about the ways I could have taken you in that bath.”

Sylvain hums against her skin, softly trailing along the side of her neck.

“I wanted to ride that damn cock of yours as you sat along the bench of the bath, and you would fondle my breasts and bite up and down my body.” Byleth stops for a second to take a sharp inhale as he tugs her hair lightly while nipping down her neck. The thought of the bruising that would take form makes her core ache. “Then, I took off my shorts and tights, starting to rub myself where I wanted you to.”

The man pulls back just enough from her collarbone to ask, “Can I take off your dress?”

“Of course.” She shivers when he tosses her left strap over her shoulder, pulling the fabric down just enough to expose the topmost of one of her breasts. “I thought about you roughly pulling me off your cock and shoving me over the edge of the bath.” Sylvain’s head starts pounding. “I wanted you to press my body into the stone floor while taking me from behind.”

He rests his forehead in the concave between her shoulder and the slope of her neck, pulling the strap the rest of the way down. Sylvain silently marvels at how she looks in the candlelight and the mixture of the sharp shadows bouncing off her collarbone along with the softer ones curving around her breast. Bits of scarring dot her skin from some cuts and slashes over the years. 

His hand shifts from her lower back to her left breast, cupping it gently at first. It fills his hand without overflowing. He gives a few stronger kneads before lightly pinching the nipple with his thumb and pointer finger. Not expecting it, her entire body flinches.

Sylvain lifts his head up and angles it near her ear. “Do you want more of that?” 

“Please.” He pulls her arms out from underneath her and sets her back flush with the desk, peppering kisses down her neck, over her collarbone, and towards the exposed nipple. The redhead utilizes the plane of one forearm to support his body hovering over hers and the other to grab a hold of her right breast, cradling it through her thin linen dress. He presses his lips onto and swirls his tongue over the perked-up nipple before skimming his teeth over it, all while pinching the other—hard. “Goddess,” Byleth breathes out, in a daze. 

Byleth places a palm on his chest and gently puts him at a distance, sitting up and stepping off the desk. She makes work of the buttons on his shirt as she guides him towards the bed. Fanning out his shirt, she runs her hands down the front of his sculpted torso. Her hands travel back up to his chest and then around his shoulder, pushing him down to sit on the edge of the bed. 

Straddling him, Byleth pulls off the other strap of her linen dress herself, and the fabric pools around her waist. Sylvain feels a hand snake over his thigh and palm the bulge poking through his trousers. She stops, returning the hand back to his chest, but before he says something, she nestles into his lap further and starts rocking her hips against his crotch. 

The woman takes a hold of his head and forces him to look at her half-lidded eyes as she rubs herself along the length of his clothed cock. Maybe if she were a commoner, he would give her the bit about her being the most beautiful woman in the world or the sexiest he’s ever seen. Byleth would know it to be some hyperbole; instead of empty words, he’ll give her what she truly deserves. 

“Get on your back,” Sylvain orders, his voice being on the verge of a growl, “before I burst.” Her hips come to a halt. “Take off that dress, too.”

Byleth stands up, and the dress falls onto the floor. The redhead stares at the fullness of her ass as she climbs on the bed towards the headboard. He slips off his shirt and tosses it to the side. Sylvain spreads her legs before her head even hits the pillow and trails his lips across the plane of her inner thigh. He flattens his tongue against her slit.

She recoils quite abruptly. Pulling himself away from the space between her legs, he looks at her with concern. “Too much?”

“No, no. I was just…” she breathes out, clutching the bedsheets beside her. “...a surprise is all.” 

“A good surprise?” He slips an arm underneath one leg and cups a breast of hers in his hand. 

Byleth nods, squeezing her eyes shut as he fondles her.

“I want to hear you say it.” 

“Yes, Sylvain.” He pinches her nipple to reward her, and she gasps. “Please touch me more.”

He won’t deny her talking like _that_. The redhead resumes long, flat licks over the length of her slit, warming and wetting her up. Sylvain’s hand drifts away from her breast, and his fingertips graze her bottom lip. Byleth takes the hint and sucks on two digits, his lips humming against her sex. With some arm maneuvering, he pulls the skin of her taut with one hand and applies pressure to her clit with the hand recently wetted by her mouth. 

“Small, slow circles,” she tells him, throwing her head back. He complies, lapping around the bundle of nerves with his finger. “A bit more pressure. Yes, just like that. Fuck.” 

Sylvain simply stares at her state of ecstasy. He enjoys a couple of additional moments watching the way she grips the bedsheets below her and manages breaths in between her body twitching from her pleasure. She’s not loud in bed—but he never expects that, in fact, it would seem unnatural if she is. It makes eliciting those reactions more rewarding. 

He notices the lubrication on his finger fading, and dipping his finger into the hole of her sex, he starts a painfully slow pace against her clit. He makes quick work with his tongue and replaces the space his fingers left with it. Sylvain starts a fluttering motion inside of her, and he knows he’s doing something right when Byleth laces her fingers through his hair. 

“Faster, Sylvain.” He quickens the motion on her clit. “Shit.” Her left thigh begins to quiver, and the man feels her convulse around his tongue. She instantly removes her hand from his hand and places it over the hand rubbing her clit, making him stop. Her muscles flex and unflex in intervals, and when the sensation turns into soft waves, she settles deeper into the bed. 

Sylvain gives her sex a couple of strong licks, smiling a bit at her new wetness. He pulls away from between his leg and notices a damp spot in the sheets underneath her pelvis. The sheer visual of it makes his core tie into a knot. He climbs up the bed, his face hovering over his. “Can I—”

“Oh, just fuck me, you fool.” He lets out a short laugh and doesn’t wait a second more. The redhead unlaces his trousers and frees his cock from the breeches underneath. 

Sylvain guides his tip up and down the length of her slit, coating it with the remnants of her orgasm. He pumps himself a couple of times with his right hand, and then, he grabs her thigh to pin to the bed. He supports himself with his forearm on the pillow next to Byleth’s head and slowly splits her open with his cock. Everything begins to feel warm and _tight_.

He rests his head against her hair and starts a slow and deep rhythm. “You feel so good. Shit.” 

The two of them marvel in the heat and the sheer wetness of it all. Everything feels slick and delicious sounds come from her aching and satisfied sex. 

She snakes up his arm, fingernails puncturing the muscle of his bicep. “Please take me from behind.”

He pulls out of her, his cock dripping a mixture of precum and her wetness. Byleth turns over onto her stomach, and Sylvain is able to get a glorious view of her tight ass. He roughly kneads it with both hands before pulling her up into his hips. She gasps as he enters her from the new angle. The woman starts rocking back and forth on his cock, his two full balls slapping against her. Her hand goes to her sex, and she starts rubbing herself as he fills her. 

“Byleth, you drive me mad.” Sylvain holds her still with a hand on her waist. He leans his body forward to grab onto the headboard, driving her head into the pillow as he starts thrusting into her. He feels nothing but pure bliss. “Is this how you wanted me to take you in the bathhouse?”

“Yes,” she breathes out. “I liked the thought of how anyone could walk in on us.”

“Shit.” He slams into her deeper, pounding her cervix. The two of them start breathing heavily. To his surprise, Byleth jerks her hips away, turns around, and shoves him onto his back. Without any pause, she sits on his cock and starts fucking him herself. Sylvain looks at her breasts bouncing to the rhythm of her hips, and he palms them with his hands rather roughly. Byleth’s fingers curl against his arms when he pinches her nipples. 

She lowers her body down, repositioning her arms and pressing her breasts against his chest. The woman quickens her pace, slamming her hips into his with every motion. Sylvain squeezes his eyes shut, his mind focusing on the warmth and tightness going up and down his cock. Up and down. Up and down. 

“Fuck. Byleth, you’re going to need to get off unless you want to bare my child,” he hisses. She pulls her cock out of her, and when Sylvain goes to pump himself, she swats his hand away. Byleth nudges her hips back and takes his length into her mouth. He releases in that instant, cursing as she brings him deeper into her mouth. His seed dribbles over her bottom lip and drips onto his pulsing balls. 

The woman takes him out of her mouth and reaches over to her nightstand for a cloth to wipe his orgasm that escaped her mouth. She shivers from the receding warmth of their sex, pulling herself and him under the covers when she finishes. 

Sylvain sighs deeply as she perfectly fits into the space between his arm and the side of his torso. Byleth nuzzles her nose into his neck. They bask in the silence for a few minutes, enjoying the closeness. 

He shifts a bit. “I want to apologize to you for two things.”

Byleth pulls away from his neck and casts him an odd look. “Oh?”

“One,” Sylvain starts. “I want to apologize for getting angry at you several weeks ago when I expressed my envy of you never knowing about your crest growing up. It was wrong of me to insinuate your life has been easier.”

“It’s really no big—”

“Two, I apologize for the actions of my late brother who injured several students in both his normal and demonic state. If I had been a bigger man and said something when my father outcasted him, Ingrid wouldn’t have that slash on her leg.”

“Sylvain,” Byleth starts, “I just had sex with you—consider that a token of my forgiveness if you must.” 

The two of them hear shouting outside of the window, interrupting the silence.

“Flayn is gone!”

“Find the Professor!”

Byleth and Sylvain share a look of dread.


End file.
